Beauty and the Baller(3)

“Yes,” I murmur.

“I could get used to this skirt.” She moves her hips, swishing the fabric.

“Loincloth.”

“You don’t say? I’ll make a note of that.” With a sly yet sweet smile, she does a little twirl, then stops in front of me and places a hand over her heart.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s sinking in. You really came to help me.”

My lips twitch. “To save the universe. And stuff like that.” I glance around the room. “Can I escort you somewhere?”

Disappointment flickers over her face before she quickly hides it. “No. I’m fine. Really. It was nice of you to come over. I’ll go. I just wanted to pop in and see . . .” She stops, seeming to think about her words, then smiles ruefully. “Never mind. Thank you. Goodbye, Ronan.”

When she turns, I grab her hand. “Wait.”

I don’t know why I stop her, but . . .

My eyes lock with hers, several breathless moments passing as our hands cling. Acting on instinct, my thumb caresses her palm.

Her lips part, heat flashing in her irises.

A long breath comes from me. I miss this. Desire, not pity, in a woman’s eyes.

I swallow thickly. There’s been no one since Whitney. I’ve had opportunities, mostly Tuck dragging me out to dinners and get-togethers, and girls have offered, but my body—and my heart—wasn’t ready.

It’s been forever since I flirted with a girl, but . . .

Lowering my lids, I tug her closer to me until our chests brush. “Who are you, gorgeous?”

Silence, thick and sweet, stretches between us. “Yours.”

A shot of lust, fueled by her whispered words, hits me. The lizard part of my brain, the primitive side that reacts on instinct to fighting and fucking, rears up. This one, it demands. Take it.

She’s not the right girl, the other side of my head shouts, even as my index finger strokes her cheek. She turns her head into the touch, sighing softly, and my chest seizes at her automatic response.

You wanted something to push that grief back.

“Dance with me,” she murmurs and doesn’t wait for my reply but leans her forehead on my shoulder, her body starting to sway to the slow song the DJ plays.

I dip my head and sway with her, slow and easy. My hands slide around her waist, almost tentatively. Moments tick by, heavy with expectation, as if waiting to see what happens next. My thumb finds the small of her back and circles the soft skin there. It’s my favorite part of a woman, and I can’t resist. My breath snags as her fingers trace designs on my shoulders, then press harder, her nails dragging down my back, then up. I bite back a groan. Touch. It’s one of the things I’ve missed, the smooth glide of hands over skin, the feeling of connection.

We go from one song to another, the music bleeding together as the DJ spins slow tracks. I keep my eyes shut, my body relaxing against hers. Even my knee feels better. A long exhale comes from my chest as the tension from the last few hours vanishes. It was hard to walk in here. To sit at a table with couples, recognize their sorrow-filled glances, and realize that once again, I’m alone.

The truth is it’s the nights that eat at me the most. I’m sick of spending them by myself.

Vaguely, as if from a distance, I’m aware that “Say You Won’t Let Go,” by James Arthur, is on the speakers, a song about two people connecting . . . maybe it’s a message.

Her lips brush against my neck, almost hesitantly; then, braver, she moves back and kisses my throat. Electricity flares, and I toy with the top of her loincloth, rubbing the fabric. I ease my hand underneath it, my fingers grazing the curve of her ass. My heart hammers as she responds by swishing her leg in between mine, brushing against the bulge in my pants.

Powerful and greedy, desire slams into me.

I stop our dancing and slide my hands up her arms to her neck, tilting her face up. Need soaks her features, eyes dilated, cheeks flushed.

She isn’t one of Tuck’s party girls who flirts with me to be nice.

And I’m not misreading her signals.

I didn’t see this (her) coming, but . . .

“You wanna get out of here?” I ask in a gravelly voice. “Maybe do some role-playing, hmm?”

She knows what I mean. Her. Me. One night.

Her pink tongue dips out and dabs at her plump lower lip. “All right.”

“Good,” I purr as my thumb brushes her mouth.

I crook her arm through mine and lace our hands together. We move through the dancers as we leave the ballroom. Outside, the foyer is crowded with people, and we dodge past them with heads bent. I’m doing it to not be recognized; she seems to understand.

With each step, the air thins, my chest tightening. I’m not sure if it’s because this is an impulsive decision I’ll probably regret tomorrow or if it’s her. We get inside the elevator, and I slap the button for the top floor, then ease her against the wall. Words don’t feel necessary as I run my nose up her throat. She smells fresh and tart, like apples, and I’m rushing, totally—I don’t know this girl, even her name, but I don’t care. Nothing has stemmed the darkness, even alcohol, but I’ll sink myself into a beautiful woman to bring on oblivion.

She looks up at me. “I—I don’t normally, um—”

I stop her with a finger to her lips. “I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”